


Fish'n'Chips

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [52]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Day At The Beach, Established Relationship, Fluff, Lunch, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:52:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘It’s a lovely day,’ Foyle says without apparent reference to anything in particular and Paul nods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fish'n'Chips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kivrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin/gifts), [Mary_Jane221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_Jane221B/gifts).



‘And this is how you pursue investigations, is it?’ 

Paul cranes his head back, squinting against the sun. ‘Sir?’

Foyle drops on one knee beside him, flicking at the newspaper wrapping the fried fish and chips. ‘The chippie knows a lot about missing children?’

Paul smiles and leans over on one hip so he can dig in the pocket of his coat. It isn’t often he gets to do this, so he enjoys it. ‘Actually, sir--’ He pulls out his notebook and flips to the appropriate page, tilting it slightly so Foyle can read it.

Foyle leans forward and scans the page. ‘Your handwriting, sergeant---’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’ 

‘But he thinks he saw the little girl.’ Foyle sits back on his heels and nods. Paul closes the notebook and puts it back in his pocket. On second thoughts, he shrugs out of his coat and, with a little wriggling and judicious tugging, folds it on the wall beside him. 

‘And since you were already on the street in question along with Constable Holmes--’

‘Yes, yes, all right.’ Foyle bounces on his heels for a minute and then, to Paul’s surprise, pulls off his overcoat and folds it into a neat bundle, then sits on it on the other side of the package of fish and potatoes. ‘We probably found her at about the time those--’ He gestures. ‘--came out of the fryer.’ He takes off his hat, too, dropping it on the wall beside him.

‘Yes, sir. That’s what I thought.’ 

Foyle nods. ‘It was her aunt’s house. The girl didn’t want to go to the dentist in the morning so left the house before her mother got up.’

Paul laughs. ‘I can understand that. I don’t like it myself.’

‘Mm, who does?’ Foyle looks out over the beach, bright with people on what is surely one of the last warm days of the summer. A few yards down the beach is the first line of sunbathers, mostly young women on colorful towels. The changing huts are further down the beach to the right and in fairly constant use as far as Paul could see. There are some small children playing the endlessly fascinating game of being caught by the waves as they roll up onto the last stretch of wet sand. The smell of salt and clean ocean is strong in the air and Paul can feel the slight stickyness on his skin that comes from being so close to the salt water.

‘Chip, sir?’ He nudges the open newspaper parcel slightly towards Foyle who regards it for a minute, then returns to studying the beach; Paul shrugs and takes one himself. They’re excellent and it’s been a long time since he’s had fried fish this good. This is cod, too, his favorite, and the batter’s not too salty.

‘It’s a lovely day,’ Foyle says without apparent reference to anything in particular and Paul nods, breaking off a chunk of fish and dipping it in the small pool of vinegar on the greaseproof paper. It’s still hot straight through and -- just for a moment -- he lets himself revel in the taste of something he had loved as a holiday treat as a child. 

Small feet pound past behind them and Paul glances over to see three children, all more or less sunburned, scatter along the top of the wall and the pavement looking for hiding places. One dodges behind a bollard near the street, kneeling by the side of a parked car; another runs on and vanishes behind the chip shop; the third, giggling wildly, ducks behind the striped curtain of a photo booth a few feet down the wall.

‘Nice to have a crime that isn’t. Just for a change.’ Foyle sighs and leans back on one hand. He looks out over the beach for another minute and blinks, pinching at his eyes. 

‘You look tired, sir,’ Paul says, as neutrally as he can. Foyle has no grounds to argue since Paul knows exactly how many hours he’s slept in the past week which is about three less than Paul. The bright sun shows up the shadows under Foyle’s eyes with cruel fidelity.

‘Mm.’ Foyle considers the packet of food for a minute and selects a chip. ‘So do you.’

‘Perhaps you should take advantage of the lull in crime to take an afternoon off.’ Paul makes a suggestion he knows will be ignored and watches a fourth child who must be the searcher standing on the beach just above the line of sunbathers and scanning the wall. She doesn’t find what she’s looking for and turns to make her way to the stairs a few yards down the beach. She doesn’t run but plods steadily and Paul sees when she comes up the last step that she’s wearing heavy leather shoes, entirely unsuitable to the place and season, but, to judge from the worn dress she’s wearing which has clearly been cut down to fit her, possibly the only ones she owns. She pauses at the top of the steps and looks around, then laughs and points. ‘Davie! Got you! You’ll have to do better than that!’

The boy who had been behind the bollard laughs, too, and comes out, brushing off his knees. ‘Can I help you hunt?’

‘’Course.’ The girl holds out her hand with, Paul thinks, a staggering amount of confidence and, equally self-confident, the boy takes it and they put their heads together, whispering and looking up and down the pavement. Paul sees Foyle’s head turn, too, and knows he isn’t the only one who’s been watching the little story unfold; it’s one of the small things he finds so comfortable about being in Foyle’s company: knowing he’s never the only one watching. 

Foyle looks back, catches his eye, and smiles, not a superior-officer-to-subordinate smile but one that recognizes, silently, the something different between them. ‘Childhood memories, sergeant?’

Paul blinks, lost for a moment, then glances back at where the girl and Davie are still standing, heads together. The child who has taken sanctuary in the photo booth is peeking out, one hand clutching a fold of the brightly colored curtain. ‘Oh -- no -- not really.’ 

‘No, nor me.’ Foyle takes another chip and eats it in two bites. ‘My parents liked the Lake District.’

‘Dad liked to save up and go up to Scotland every couple of years to go hillwalking,’ Paul says, breaking off another chunk of fish and taking a bite. He swallows and goes on, ‘I did spend a couple of summers working down near Brighton with a…’ He stops, feeling as though he is seeing the beach spread in front of him for the first time. ‘With a friend. When I was about eighteen.’ 

‘Yes?’ Foyle’s tone is carefully neutral, but Paul catches the quick sideways glance.

‘No -- no, nothing -- I mean --’ Paul stops himself. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound like a mystery -- it was just a friend from school. David. I haven’t talked to him in years.’ 

‘Ah.’ Foyle rubs his fingers together and, apparently preferring not to grease-stain his handkerchief, sucks his fingertip and thumb clean neatly, not looking at Paul. 

Despite the overt lack of attention, Paul finds his interest in the remaining chunks of fish sensibly diminished and he’s warm from more than the sun. If this is a bid to secure Paul’s attention, then he would have to give Foyle full marks.

Foyle doesn’t appear to notice Paul and instead wipes the corners of his mouth with his thumb. Paul fixes his eyes firmly on the sand beyond the toes of his shoes, forcing himself to think about the texture and color of the pebbles scattered along the foot of the wall rather than the abruptly vivid memory of Foyle looking up from where he’s lying against Paul’s naked thigh, one hand on Paul’s knee, his eyes dark and shining, smiling and making the same gesture to wipe moisture from the corner of his lips.

‘You’ll have to tell me about it sometime,’ Foyle says and pushes himself to his feet. 

‘Yes, sir.’ Paul makes a rough package out of the remains of the fish and chips and, a little more awkwardly, gets up. He takes a step or two, his left knee protesting the odd sitting position, and tosses the ball of paper into the rubbish bin. When he turns around, Foyle is holding out his coat, his own over his shoulder.

‘Thank you.’ Paul takes his coat, careful to let his fingers brush against Foyle’s below the folds of material, and catches Foyle’s eye. ‘I assure you, sir; he was nowhere near as good company as you.’


End file.
